


The Broken Ones

by DefinitelyBroken



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Regret, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyBroken/pseuds/DefinitelyBroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to rip his hair out when he looks at Ramos. There is no careless laughter anymore, no one to chat with during a break. Iker thinks he's broken Sergio; he seems like a lifeless puppet, sitting on the bench, staring at nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Needed

“. . .But that’s bullshit. Right, Iker? Hey, Iker? You hear me?”

“Mmph? Sorry, got distracted.” Casillas swallows down and turns to Cristiano, beginning to flush. Shirtless Sergio walks right past them, to the showers, a towel hangs on his shoulder. It looks like he waves his hips on purpose with his perfect physique as he turns back and says something to Mesut. Iker has been afraid to stay alone with Ramos for the last two weeks. He just doesn’t know how to escape this consuming desire. It’s madness, it’s _wrong_ , but the goalkeeper can’t help it. When Sergio shines with his torso in the shower, in hotel rooms and locker rooms, it feels like a horrible torture to Iker. Horrible—and sweet, too. He literally has to slap his own arms to not reach them to Sergio’s hot skin and touch it, to not press his own body into hot and strong Ramos’ or lick the corner of his lips. . .

“Did you even hear what I just said?” asks the Portuguese with frustration, running his hair with fingers. That’s when it becomes real—Cristiano is mad that someone hasn’t paid enough attention to his persona.

“About the game with Italians?” Iker wonders because this is the last thing he remembers about the conversation.

“No, about shooting the ad,” his friend says, takes his sports bag and leaves. How Iker is all alone with Xabier.

“Stop acting so slow, Iker,” Alonso says, shaking his head. “What’s going on with you lately?”

“I’m fine,” Iker assures, taking his stuff out of the locker.

“Did you fall in love?”

Stunned, Iker nearly drops his watch. “With who?”

“You tell me,” Xabier smiles.

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Fine. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Iker falls down on the bench and hides his face in hands. As days go by, his obsession never leaves—only grows stronger and stronger. He’s afraid that one beautiful day his brain will give up and he’ll fuck Sergio the first second he sees him.

Casillas can’t remember the moment he started to look at his friend differently. At first he told himself it’s the lack of sex. Then he tried to convince the man in the mirror that his feelings are another form of friendship. Just a mutual sympathy. Nothing more, nothing less. But he stopped doing that when got one thing—he was losing his mind every time he saw Sergio naked. Or even half-naked. Iker has been trying not to look in Ramos’ eyes in strange fear that Sergio will _know._ And with each day it was becoming harder and harder until almost impossible. Fully obsessed with this fight, Iker forgets that the guilty one is just behind the wall. He only recovers when Sergio walks out of the showers, swinging his wet hair; little drops start to fly across the room. Iker secretly licks his lips while staring at water streaks on Ramos’ chest.

“Oh you’re still here,” he asks in a cheerful voice. Iker silently nods, still staring at his friend as if hypnotized. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing.” Disappointed, Casillas watches the ripped body disappear under the T-shirt.

“Wanna come to my place? We could watch a movie, drink something.” Iker’s heart skips a beat and tucks to his ribs, hitting them loud and fast. He shouldn’t agree, he won’t be able to stand it any longer. . . But the temptation is too great to deny it.

“Let’s go.” He gets up and follows Ramos.

~o~o~o~

Sergio laughs, throwing his head back. Iker is ready to admire him—for thousand times, if needed—because the defender is so damn handsome. It’s so overwhelming that Iker finally stops trying to follow the movie’s plot and just glares to the right every fifteen seconds. Yes, he counts.

“Let’s have one more,” Sergio suggests when the laughter lets go of him. He fills the glasses up and raises his one. “To our wishes! To them coming true!”

They drink. And more after. The alcohol, running through their veins, makes Casillas feel powerful, euphoric. It gets a little hot. And Iker is not the only one to notice it.

“Why so hot?” Sergio mutters angrily and waves a magazine to cool himself. And then suddenly takes his T-shirt off. Casillas freezes like a statue, the glass near his mouth. “I’ll go upstairs, open the window.”

Ramos rises from the couch and goes to the stairs—Iker slowly rises, too, and follows his friend. The ‘evil’ part of his brain commands the body, listening only to strong desire. His throat is dry now. He licks his lips nervously as he hears the window being opened. The door is framed with bright yellow which makes it look like a gateway to Heaven.

Perfectly shirtless Sergio only proves this stupid thought; he stands in the middle of the room like an angel who’s just came down to Earth. But angels don’t drive you mad or tempt or provoke.

Iker feels the last normal thought leave him. The passion flames burn his body, blood thumps in the head, breath betrays him as he comes closer.

“You scared to be alone?” Sergio smiles. Casillas watches him, from up to down, from lips to stomach. He feels like a madman at the moment. And Ramos teases him with his enticing body. Only a few centimeters lie between them. Iker, hearing nothing but strange hubbub, comes as close as possible and presses his lips into Ramos’ and braces his neck.

Sergio doesn’t move, he just stands there, eyes wide open. When Iker licks his lips, Ramos pushes himself away and asks, dumbfounded, ”What the hell, Iker?”

But Casillas can’t be stopped now. In the next second he’s all over the defender, stroking his hair. He slams Ramos in the nearest wall and kisses him saucily, using the fact that his mouth is a little opened in surprise. Something tightens in Iker’s crotch when he breaks the kiss and breathes in Sergio’s neck.

“Iker, are you nuts?” Ramos pushes Casillas away so hard that the goalkeeper almost falls down. “What’d you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t you see?” Iker lets out, pulling off his shirt at once. “ _I want you._ Sergie, you’re gorgeous now. No, not now— _always._ You drive me crazy.”

Sergio’s eyes widen even more. The one he called a friend . . . wants him? Wants to fuck a man?

“Cas, you’re drunk. Calm a bit down, and I’ll—” Sergio turns to leave the bedroom. Iker can’t let this happen. He pushes Ramos to the wall and presses into his chest. Well, that’s final—Iker touches his skin. The desire, like a river blocked by a dam, bursts its banks. This little touch breaks the dam, lets this frenetic flow rush free. Through the spine, it goes up into his brain, like a cold, ominous snake.

Iker moans in Sergio’s lips, strokes his torso eagerly, covers his throat and clavicles with wet kisses. Ramos tries to struggle, balks his shoulders with palms and twists his head. But the goalkeeper takes an armful of him and drags to the bed. True panic flashes in Sergio’s eyes.

“Let me go, you psycho!”

“Don’t be scared,” Iker whispers and puts a hand on his knee, trails the way up—and squeezes Ramos’ soft dick through the fabric.

“Don’t you touch me!”

“C’mon, Sergie, no need to resist something this good.” Casillas pulls down Sergio’s shorts along with the underwear—obviously not on the first try. Then undresses himself, _again_ presses into Ramos, his hands all over the body, _again_ rapes his lips. His smell is everything for Casillas, it makes him gasp for breath. Ignoring the screams, Iker squeezes his asscheeks, the hand stroking between them, and puts one finger in.

When Iker is fully inside, he can’t help moaning, loud and long. Sergio is so hot and tight that Casillas’ body is caught in sweet spasms, eyes covered in a haze. It’s hard not to slam in him like an animal. Eyes half closed with joy, Iker goes as slow as he can; it’s Sergio’s first time, he doesn’t want to hurt him. Heat, the first hint of upcoming orgasm, finds its way from Casillas’ fingers to his dick which goes deeper and deeper into Ramos. Sergio digs his short nails in Iker’s back, screaming and letting out short whimpers with every thrust. He starts shivering. This makes Casillas see multi-coloured spots; all sounds merge into continuous hum which goes louder every second. Finally, the world explodes with thousands fireworks, breaks into millions splinters. Iker’s body shivers, a loud moan coming from the throat, and the goalkeeper falls on the sheets, trying to breathe. He feels bliss coming through his body and smiles, satisfied. Iker closes his eyes for a moment and only later notices that Sergio lies on his side on the very edge of the bed, shaking. Fifteen minutes pass by—no change. Iker rises on one arm, crawls to Ramos and tries to _understand._ The defender’s face is hidden in pillows, arms covering the head.

“Sergie?” Iker calls silently. No response. Casillas shakes him lightly but Sergio brushes the arm off. The goalkeeper starts to pull him on his back—and suddenly Ramos turns round and hits him in the face. Iker doesn’t fail to notice tears running down his cheeks.

“Don’t touch me!” Sergio sputters in an unfamiliar voice. Tucks himself back into the pillows, sobbing.

 _What did I do wrong?_ Nasty chill spreads on his back.

“Sergie, you hurt? I shouldn’t have gone right—”

“Get the fuck out, fucking freak.”

Iker freezes. He didn’t expect _this._ He just was hoping that at first Ramos would be a little stubborn, a little surprised and then he’d get as much pleasure as he would. But… it’s never fully occurred to Casillas that Sergio may _not_ be interested in men or even hate the ones who are.

“Sergio—”

He turns round again, his eyes filled with pure hatred, humiliation and _pain._ He’s crying because his drunk best friend fucked him in his own house like some dirty whore.

“I said get out. I don’t want to see you."

Shocked, Iker slowly stands on foot, takes his clothes and plods downstairs. Getting dressed in the living room, he gets that he’s been ousted for good and that he doesn’t want to leave his friend in such condition. _Well, when you were humping the fuck out of him, you didn’t seem to care!_ Instead of calling a taxi, he falls out of the front door and walks home. It’s not that far and he could use a walk. His steps are shaky, unsteady and not only because of booze.

Casillas now totally understands what he’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this seems super naïve and a little stupid. Or super stupid, too. But I promise it'll be better. And yeah, no sex for five or six chapters, just angstangstangst. I love it. And yeah #2, Mesut is still in Real in this one. And yeah #3, English isn't my first language so there might be some mistakes. I'll be glad if you point them out for me =3


	2. The Two Lonelinesses

Iker is scared to go to the morning training. He doesn’t care that Mourinho will yell at him like crazy if catches even the slightest scent of alcohol. And, considering Iker’s relationship with the coach lately, it may not end with a usual lecture.

He’s scared to meet Sergio. As miles go by, conflicting feelings inside Casillas strengthen. Nothing can stop his ex-friend from telling everything to the team, right?

“And I’m telling you, Barcelona hasn’t a single chance!” Pepe exclaims, putting on his boots. “We’ll crash them.”

“Less confidence,” Sami says. “No need to underestimate the rival.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was talking about,” di María adds in a higher voice, glad to be supported. “You kept saying this last time, and what happened after?”

Sami mutters something in German and everyone hears Mesut laugh on the opposite bench.

“English, please!” Pepe insists, looks to the right end of the locker room and asks, “What’d you think, Serg?”

“What?” Ramos shivers, frightened. He hasn’t made a sound, all tucked to the farthest wall.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Mesut wonders and makes a step to Ramos. Sergio jumps up and shakes his head.

“All’s fine, I’m just not feeling very well.”

The teammates gather around Ramos, concerned. They’re quite surprised with their friend’s sudden mood change. Always merry and ridiculously positive Sergio seems like a beaten dog.

“What hurts?” Cristiano asks.

Sergio looks at him attentively, hesitating for a couple of seconds, and answers, “Nothing.”

“Maybe you’ll see a doctor?”

“No need. It’ll pass… Just a burst of depression.” He tries to let out a smile but what comes out is more like a painful grimace.

“No fever?” Alonso touches Sergio’s forehead and finds oddly cool and wet skin.

“A bit cold.”

“Here.” Sami throws his jacket to Ramos. This is when the door opens.

“Well, there’s the cap. Where’ve you been?”

“Is something wrong?” Iker drops the bag from his shoulders. He doesn’t see Ramos because of Los Blancos semicircle.

“We start in a minute. Where’d you get that bruise?”

Iker touches the spot Sergio hit yesterday but answers nothing.

“Sergio’s not feeling well—” The team spreads, Pepe turns to Ramos and stills suddenly, sentence not finished, mouth half-open.

Snuggled to the wall, pale and wide-eyed, Ramos looks at the cap as if he sees a ghost. Pepe notices almost the same panic on Iker’s face. The players glance on the defender and back on the goalkeeper, trying to understand what’s happening.

“What—” Karim starts.

“You’re still in here!” Mourinho yells. “Get on the field now!”

No one tries to argue with the coach. The team leaves the locker room, going under the cloudless sky. Iker stops, waiting for Sergio, but Ramos only moves farther, horrified with them being alone.

“Sergio, yesterday—”

“Don’t come closer!” Iker hears fear in his voice.

“I just want to apologize. Don’t be scared. I won’t harm you.”

“Well thanks for the assurance! I can expect anything from someone like you.”

“Sese—”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Ramos explodes. “You’re no one to me, and I’m no one to you!”

Sergio rushes out. Iker can only sigh and follow him.

When the players divide into two teams, Sergio hesitantly asks, “May I change side?” José gives him a harsh look. “I don’t want to be in this team.”

“Ramos, you aren’t choosing a waltz partner. Stop acting like a kid.” The coach turns round and goes to the opposite side of the stadium.

Everyone has understood that there was a fight between the defender and the goalkeeper and that both aren’t in the mood to talk about it. Sergio simply waves off and Iker ignores the never-ending questions stream. Situation heats up more when Ramos, instead of defending the goal, runs from Iker as far as possible.

“So, what’s all this?” Marcelo demands, having lost the patience. “Can you stand still and not jump back and forth?”

“Piss off,” Sergio snaps. All eyes are immediately on him. He’s never acted like this, always radiating pure energy.

“Iker, maybe _you_ can explain?”

All Los Blancos are gathering nearby, having noticed the growing hassle.

“Yeah guys, what’s happened?”

“He won’t tell anyway,” Sergio says, “not man enough.”

“Oh you want me to?” the cap parries. He’s grown extremely annoyed with questionings.

“But you won’t!”

Iker is breathing fast, and just as he’s opening his mouth to say God knows what, the coach’s voice thunders, “Ramos, two circles around the stadium, _go!_ And you, so-called captain, may take care of your problems later. Where’s your discipline!?” he exclaims and looks over the team sternly. Have they forgotten what football is? “I’m not del Bosque who lets such crap go!”

~o~o~o~

“What’re you looking at?” Sergio breathes out, leaning to the locker in fatigue. The angry coach made him run near thirty circles, certainly not less. He still doesn’t want to answer teammates’ endless questions.

“Don’t act like a fool, Sergio. Explain.”

“We won’t let you go unless you both do.”

“Oh leave me alone, you’re getting on my nerves!” Sergio twitches his T-shirt off and throws it to his bag. Misses. He sure looks wretched.

Iker doesn’t manage to leave the locker room as fast so Los Blancos turn to him. But the interrogation is a bit different.

“You both crazy or what?”

“Why’s Sergie so antsy?”

“What did you do to him?”

“Why does he look at you that way?”

“Relax, guys, it’s just an argument. We’ll be good soon.” Casillas starts seeing true aggression on their faces and it bothers him.

 _“What did you do to him?”_ Pepe demands openly. Iker looks around in search of support; there is enmity in everyone’s eyes. He bears it without a word.

The tension is growing. Iker thinks that next moment they’ll beat the hell out of him. But it doesn’t happen—Higuain in lead, the team leaves the stadium.

~o~o~o~

A week later Los Blancos boycott Iker. He’s ignored; and if there is a need to tell him something, they say it cold and scornfully. Mourinho reminds that the captain’s orders must be executed but Iker’s authority is lost for good. He’s pushed and shoved as if unintentionally, they throw away his stuff in the locker or in the shower.  His car even gets several scratches and dents—yeah, all Real Madrid players suddenly forgot how to drive. When fans attend a training, the team openly mocks Iker, puzzling the fans. At first Casillas snaps back but then tries to ignore the attacks. It angers the team even more; they complain Mourinho about every possible thing, their mockery grows tougher. Iker stares into their eyes, purses his lips but bears all of it. He’s not going to cry to José or the psychologist like some self-conscious teenager.

Sergio watches Casillas suffer with vengeful joy. He deserved it. He’ll know what it is to feel pain. But… Ramos’ own anxiety doesn’t disappear. Los Blancos have stopped questioning him, even try not to disturb him and just like that Sergio is totally _alone._ When he begins a chat with the players, they fall silent and look at him in a way they’d look at someone with cancer. But he’s grateful to them because, when the captain walks dangerously close, they merge together, covering Sergio with their broad backs. Sometimes Ramos thinks that only the USA President has better security.

All alone, Iker takes a shower, packs his stuff and then decides to go to Sergio’s place, talk to him. Try to talk, at least. There is only the tiniest chance that he’ll let Casillas in, but it’s worth it.

Lately it seems to Iker that Sergie he knew before and Sergio he sees now are completely different people. Ramos, quiet and wary, avoids talking. The only nice change is that he plays better now. The teammates change places with Sergio every time he ends up in one team with Iker. The defender rushes forward and kicks the ball so hard that Iker gets bruises. The goalkeeper silently takes this punishment. He knows he deserves it. He wants to rip his hair out when he looks at Ramos. There is no careless laughter anymore, no one to chat with during a break. Iker thinks he's broken Sergio; he seems like a lifeless puppet, sitting on the bench, staring at nowhere. Casillas is trying not to touch him so he won’t make matters worse. But is there _worse?_

The windows are glowing with soft yellow but, no matter how many times Casillas presses the bell push, the gate doesn’t open. He pulls the handles a couple of times, yells _SERGIO!_ with all air and gets no response. Well, who can blame Ramos? He doesn’t have to speak with Iker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Mourinho is still the coach. I love that Real.


	3. The Peacemaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is full dialogue. Sorry if you don't like it, but I decided there's no need in unnecessary descriptions. But sure there will be ones in the future (and a lot).

“Well he’s gone.” Sergio returns to the living room and sits down in the armchair. “And what did you want to talk about? If that’s about him and me—”

“Exactly,” the voice from the sofa says.

“Then I’ve got to disappoint you,” Sergio smiles wryly. “Why should I open up to you? You think you’re special?”

“I don’t. I just want to help you.”

“You will if you stop frazzling me.” Sergio can’t wait to get rid of the unwanted guest. He didn’t expect this man to try to know his secret with such force.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone whatever it is.”

“You’re like a baby with these promises.” Ramos takes a water bottle from the table.

“What did he do to you?” the man spits out. Sergio’s hand winces slightly and water spills on his jeans. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I see you’re scared of him, you avoid him. The whole team sees.” Ramos looks a little intimidated. His eyes never leave his guest’s. “If you tell me, I’ll do everything I can to help. There isn’t a problem which cannot be solved.” The dark eyes are comforting, persuasive. Sergio swallows down. “Well?” the man says softly, his fair hair wavering.

“I can’t.”

“Don’t hold it inside. Stop tiring yourself,” Coentrão exhorts. Sergio isn’t used to being silent for so long. A week is too much for loneliness. He really is tired to hide in every corner and shiver with every strange sound. When the first word leaves Sergie’s lips, he starts babbling haltingly.

He’s waiting for disgust or shock but Fábio doesn’t show any, only frowning a bit. Having said everything, Sergio stares into a carpet under his feet. Coentrão says nothing, too. The silence is unbearable.

“Why don’t you talk to Iker?” the Portuguese suggests finally.

“Jesus Christ, Fábio, were you listening to me!? What can we possibly talk about?”

“Maybe you liked what happened and now you’re afraid to admit it?”

Stunned Sergio is speechless Sergio. He opens his mouth, trying to say something articulate. When Ramos remembers the night in its details, his fists clench. “So you think it’s pleasant when you’re fucked by your best friend who’s drunk as hell?” he hisses, “and when he says he’s wanted you for _sooo_ long. Why did I even tell you this? God, I knew it was a dumb idea.”

“I’m simply trying to help you sort all this out. To sort _you_ out,” Fábio comes to the armchair and sits next to Sergio. “Can you not forgive him? Like, at all? He’s suffering, too.”

“Yeah because he’s got no one to fuck anymore,” Sergio says.

“No. He regrets. Don’t say he doesn’t, it’s obvious. He misses you.”

“I hate him.” Ramos slams at the leather armrests.

“But miss too, don’t you? I mean, as the best friend.”

“He isn’t one anymore. Since that night. Jesus, all this is so filthy!”

“No need to lie now,” Coentrão smiles, “confess, Ramos, you do miss him.”

Sergio is silent, trying not to let revulsion cloud his mind completely. “Well yeah. A bit. But I miss Iker he was before. I’ve no idea how to speak with the man he’s become.”

“I once had a huge fight with my pal, too. I wanted to strangle him with my own arms.” The Portuguese hums. “But we’re good now. If I hadn’t made the first step, I would’ve lost one of the best people I know. Ha, now we would’ve been near each other every day and _hate hate hate_.”

“Every day? Wait, is it—”

“Cris,” Fábio nods, “we used to play in different clubs back then. It’s a long freaking story.”

“Hey! I did tell mine!” Sergio exclaims. Coentrão hangs back at first but finally decides to act according to _Revelation for Revelation_ thing _._ They talk till the dead of night; Ramos starts coming to life slowly, asks questions and listens to teammate’s advice. When Fábio leaves, Sergio falls down to his bed but can’t fall asleep for a long time. He’s always considered Coentrão a quiet, taciturn man. He wonders why he’s opened his soul exactly to Fábio of all the team.

~o~o~o~

“That’s what he said— _miss?_ ” Iker asks again dazedly, leaning forward.

“Yes,” Fábio answers, annoyed, “but he misses his best friend, not a perverted rapist. Don’t expect him to accept you right away.”

“I wasn’t going to. What’ve I done, Fabi…?” Casillas tugs his hair.

“You’ve made a mistake, Iker. Everyone has a right to make one, and you can also fix it. Just tell me one thing; do you still want him?”

“I swear I’ll never do anything like that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Iker thinks for mere seconds and shakes his head. “No. It was like a… flash. It began suddenly and ended so, too.” He’s silent for a moment. “I fear for Sergio so much.”

“Me too,” the Portuguese sighs. “Just don’t rush, ok? I’ll talk to him again.”

“Fine.” Seeing Fábio off, Iker sincerely thanks him for everything. “But I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I don’t deserve any help.”

Coentrão gives him a long look and smiles with the corner of his lips. “Because you’re acting like a _tolo desmiolado._ And Sergio’s a nice guy, I feel sorry for him.”

~o~o~o~

In a couple of days Fábio meets Sergio again, like he said, to talk about Iker. “So what did you decide?”

“Erm, nothing.” Ramos shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, starting to wander around the living room. “He won’t come first and me neither. You know, I’m beginning to think it’s a bad idea. I’d lived before meeting him somehow, I’m gonna live now, too.”

“Don’t you back down. I’ve got news, by the way.” Fábio makes a pause on purpose, watching Sergio cunningly. He’s sure his strategy will work.

“What is it?”

“I tried to nose out everything from Iker. He didn’t, of course, confess in raping you but he said he’s ready to do anything for your friendship. You’ve got no idea; I think he may beg you on his knees if needed. I hardly managed to talk him out of coming here and sleeping under your fence perhaps.”

“Ok, let’s imagine I’ve forgiven him—but what if _this_ happens again? How can I be sure he won’t repeat his so-called feat?”

“He swore it’s gone. That it was a flash.”

“Oh a flash?” Sergio bristles. “In his pants, huh!? Well this fucking crazy—”

Fábio can’t hold back a chuckle. “Alright, forget it. You think it’d be better if he still wanted you?”

“No,” the defender mutters but bursts in a second, “although it doesn’t mean I’m ok with this explanation! A flash, you see!” Fábio, his head tilted, looks at Ramos with a smile. “What?”

“You seem like yourself finally. Joking, smiling.”

The smile leaves Ramos’ lips as he remembers the past week. True hell. And it wasn’t easy to Iker, too… Sergio’s heart falters for a moment when he _sees_ the cap’s lost face, melancholy eyes. If this whole thing isn’t fixed, the team will mock Iker till the end of his career. “So, um, back to the point. What do we do?”

Fábio praises himself for gumption and puts a thoughtful look on his face. “Hmm. Well, you won’t go to Iker’s, that’s for sure. He wanted to come here, but I doubt you’ll even answer the door,” the Portuguese makes himself sound more critically and watches Sergio’s reaction. Ramos frowns, thinking.

“I’m not sure I can stay alone with him.”

“Yeah, that’ll be hard. Even though Iker swore he won’t touch you but who knows—”

“He said so?”

 _Well look who’s swallowed the bait,_ Fábio thinks. “Yep. ‘If Sergio doesn’t ask, I won’t even come close.’”

Ramos is silently thinking over it. Iker wears his armband not because of pretty blue eyes. He can keep his promises. “Let’s try. Tell him to come tomorrow.”  _Finally_ _._ “Could you be with him? It’ll make me more comfortable.”

“Sure,” the Portuguese shrugs.

~o~o~o~

“Um, Fábio, did you speak with him?”

Coentrão checks there’s no one else in the locker room and only then answers, "Yeah." If the teammates see him talking to the _outcast_ , he won’t escape an interrogation.

“And?”

“He’s agreed to your visit.”

“Really?” the goalkeeper smiles.

“No, I’m being incredibly sarcastic,” Fábio needles. “But it’s not that simple. Sergio isn’t fully ok so be careful. Show him your remorse. Convince _that_ shall never happen again. And talk about yourself, not me; _you_ want to put up.

“Of course,” Iker nods, tugging at the zip puller on his bag.

“And may God help you not screw it up, or I’ll kill you with bare hands.”

~o~o~o~

When Coentrão’s car stops at Sergio’s driveway, the two men leave it and head to the door. Fábio presses the bell push, asking, “Ready?”

“Yes.” Iker is holding up bravely, trying not to show worry when his insides are trembling.

Sergio answers the door and immediately walks back to the living room. Fábio decides he’s the third wheel and says, “You’re on your own. Bye.”

“Bye,” they answer at the same time. The door closes—and deathly silence embraces the house. Sergio examines Iker for the first time in days; the goalkeeper has become peaky, pale, it’s like he’s aged for ten years. Ramos realizes in horror that there’s his own reflection in Casillas. One broken, lonely reflection.

“Good evening, Sergio,” Iker says.


	4. For You

Casillas inhales, opens his mouth—but suddenly all words are forgotten. He tries to gather his thoughts, to remember Fábio’s instructions, re-opens his mouth—and nothing comes out.

“Will you say something or not?” Ramos purses his lips skeptically.

“Thanks for letting me come here.”

Sergio spreads his hands as if saying, _Here I am, what do you want?_

“How’re you feeling?”

The defender hums. “You really wanna know? Fine. Thanks to Fábio, the last three days weren’t as hellish as before. It'd been something between _nightmare_ and _catastrophically horrible._ It’s weird you’re interested in my condition.”

Iker understands his friend needs to let off steam, to compensate the insult. “I’ve always been interested. And worried.”

“I don’t remember you being worried when you got loaded and dragged me to bed.”

Iker has nothing to answer. They stand against each other, afraid to move. The air seems so electrified that one tiny spark would be enough to make the whole place explode. “You were  _that_ disgusted?”

There goes the mistake. The cap generously adds fuel to the fire which he tried so hard to choke.

Sergio flares up in one second, his nostrils dilate in anger. “No, it was my life dream to hook up with a man! I’ve craved my best friend, whom I trusted as myself, to fuck me!”

Iker steps forward but it only makes matters worse. Sergio jumps back in fright. “Sergie, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Casillas retreats to the farthest corner.

“And what did you mean? Explain at last, why the fuck did you come here?”

Iker screws up his eyes tight and falls on his knees, greatly surprising Ramos. “Sergio, listen to me, please! And forgive if you can.” He opens his eyes, feeling tears rolling down his cheeks. “It was madness, I couldn’t live without thinking about you. I’ve lost my mind. And then you invited me here… It was so tempting that I couldn’t refuse.” Iker speaks with emotion, baring the dark side of his soul to Sergio, noticing that Ramos stopped crinkling in aversion. “I was on my limit that day. And when you took your shirt off, I’ve lost any control over myself. I could blame booze, the _I-don’t-know-what’s-happened-to-me,_ or your body, but what for? Deep inside I was hoping you wouldn’t mind, that I’d be as pleasant to you as you are to me. Selfish prick.” Iker shakes his head.

“What revelations! Oh Lord!” Sergio grins not _Sergio-y_ at all. “You can’t possibly know what I’ve come through that night! How ashamed and hurt I was! And you—you ran away home and on the next day came to the training like nothing happened!

“I didn’t—”

“You know what I wanted most?” Sergio quickly reaches the goalkeeper and, looking him in the eye, spits with hatred, “To make you feel the same I felt. To suffer. Not morally, no; the team took care of it. My first thought was to buy a vibrator, drag you home, tie down to the bed and try that little thing on you!”

Iker swallows down, picturing this. “Sese, I’m terribly—”

“I think I asked you not to call me that.”

“Alright, sorry. I’m terribly guilty, but I swear it’s over. I want our friendship back.”

“How do you imagine it?” Ramos asks coldly.

“Tell me what to do for you to forgive me!” Casillas says desperately.

“Should’ve thought earlier.” The defender comes back to the window.

“Please! Just give me a chance! A single chance! I can go away for a couple of weeks, give you some time.” Iker sees only the silent Sergio’s back. “Or leave for good. Live in another city. Another country.” No reaction. “You want me to leave the club?”

Ramos’ loud laughter is out of the blue. “You? Leave Real? Not almighty _E_ _l Santo!_ You’re what you’ve called yourself—a selfish prick. You’ll never leave the prestige club for some unworthy person’s forgiveness.”

Every human being has certain amount of patience. When it’s gone, he/she gets extremely close to some kind of line; and crossing it leads to unexpected behaviour. Iker rises from his knees, his face slightly red with anger. “You know better than anyone that I don’t care for prestige.”

“Whatever. I do know another thing; you’ll never leave.” Sergio openly laughs at him. It starts buzzing in Iker’s ears. His pride has been injured, his dignity. As if Ramos dares him.

“I will!” Iker yells, “I’ve got nothing to do there anyway because the guys coo with you like with a three year old! And don’t you be surprised that not only girls want you! Acting like a cissy, squeezing everyone; you even walk like a fucking fashion model!” There’s no air left in his lungs, and Iker stops, recovering his breath. Sergio looks not just surprised—shocked. They stare at each other, and then Casillas flees the room, puts his shoes on quickly and storms out of the house.

The captain thought the situation couldn’t go worse but it did tonight. He asked for a single chance from Sergio and lost it right away. Now he’s got only one way out.

~o~o~o~

Real Madrid’s locker room is full of usual fuss and morning vigour. The atmosphere is absolutely casual; Los Blancos joke, shove each other playfully. Until Iker arrives at the stadium. One of the players always waits for him to appear and then rushes into the locker room, telling everyone that the _outcast_ is here.

But not today. Casillas comes up as early as possible and changes with Cristiano, Gonzalo and Mesut. These guys are calmer than Pepe or Xabi; they are haughtily silent, ignoring the goalkeeper’s persona completely. _Whatever, I can put up with this,_ Iker thinks, getting into his shorts. Premature inference; those two his greatest haters are entering the room along with Coentrao and Modrić. Behind all of them Iker notices Sergio’s hair.

The men are showing either foretaste or enmity. Iker consoles himself with the thought that he has to suffer just a bit more.

Piling up his stuff in the locker, the goalkeeper takes the sheet of paper out of his bag—and exactly now someone pushes him. The sheet flies down to Modrić’s feet. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he smirks mockingly, picks it up with a theatrical gesture and sways the paper in the air, bringing everyone’s attention to himself.

“Give it here.” Iker tries to grab the paper with no use.

“Is it a letter from some girl fan? Guys, I hope you won’t mind if I sneak a peek.”

“Nah,” they grin.

Luka looks through the sheet, and his smirk fades. “What’s this?”

“Don’t you see?” Iker wrests the paper from the teammate’s grasp, doubles it and hides into the locker. “The application for leaving Real.”

“What!?” several voices sound simultaneously.

“I should tell José that at the very least half of his players are deaf.”

They look at him somehow confused. “So our cap has given up?”

“Yeah, pussy,” Ronaldo nods, agreeing with Mesut.

“No, Cristiano, I’m not a pussy. And I’m not gonna tell you the real reason.” Iker finds Sergio, muttering, “Sorry.” And leaves for the field.

~o~o~o~

Fábio drags Sergio in the corner, tugs at his T-shirt and almost yells, “What the fuck happened yesterday?”

“Let me go!” Ramos shoves Coentrão in the chest. “Nothing good. We just yelled at each other. And finally Iker said he’ll leave the club. Something like that.”

Fábio punches the wall. “You’re either a fool or a complete fool.”

“What?” Sergio boils over.

“When will you get that you mean to Iker more than the club or the team or both!?” the Portuguese exclaims. “He truly regrets! Don’t you think it’s time to stop making a fucking fortress out of yourself?”

Sergio wants to say something harsh in return, but god damn it, Fábio’s right.

“So?” Coentrão asks edgily.

“So what?”

“Go and tell him!”

“Tell what!?”

“Decide on your own. I’m not gonna think instead of you this time!” Fábio goes away, leaving Sergio all alone with the furious fight inside his head;

_Forgive?_

_Why not?_

_He doesn’t deserve it._

_Iker is miserable without you._

_And I?_

_Don’t be an idiot, so are you!_

_If he leaves, I’ll celebrate._

_You’ll destroy his career if you let that happen._

_It’s his decision!_

_Naïve moron!_

_What if he’s truly sorry?_

_By the way, Iker is fucking right about you being a cissy._

_That’s not my fault I’m so handsome!_

_Should’ve whirled your ass less!_

Ramos clutches his head. Anyway, he can make something up after the training.

Los Blancos are running run around the field, exercising, stretching; Cristiano and Pepe are talking about something, glancing at Iker from time to time. Sergio comes closer to them; Ronaldo is spinning the ball in his hands. “Serg, what’d you think about our cap’s decision?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Well I think he may get the fuck out,” Pepe snarls and Ramos suddenly wants to snarl at him, too. Iker leans forward to lace his boots tighter.

“Ha, I guess we can boost him up.” Cristiano elbows Pepe, nodding at the goalkeeper. Pepe smirks wryly.

Sergio can’t even understand what they mean; Ronaldo tosses the ball up and kicks it hard, aiming at Casillas’ butt. Right in this second Iker turns slightly left—and the ball hits his temple. The sound is so loud that it echoes on the other side of the stadium. The goalkeeper stiffens for a moment, like a statue, and falls down on the grass.

Sergio rushes to him, crossing the field in large jumps, kneels nearby. Shakes Iker by his shoulders, turns him to see his face; panic squeezes his chest as a steel ring.

Casillas is unconscious.


	5. La Familia

Iker dreams he's wandering somewhere all alone, ripping through darkness. It’s alive, it’s put everything in a cocoon of weird fear and vague anxiety. He can’t stop thinking he’s lost the way and now he’s forever in the endless gloom, looking… looking for what?

Silence hurts his ears, the darkness burns his eyes out, the fear grows stronger with each step. Suddenly there is a loud sound as if somebody struck a gong. Iker runs forward, not bothering about possible danger. The sound repeats, louder. Casillas trips, falls, rises and runs again. It seems if he wanted to stop, he wouldn’t be able to.

All of a sudden ground vanishes, making Casillas drown in the abyss. He tries to scream but can’t hear his voice. Throbbing pain in the temples drives him mad; a new blow flashes in his mind. Something is pulling him down, in that deep well. Another beat, like a thunderclap, and—

The captain opens his eyes, winces at the pain which isn’t going to leave. Tries to understand where he is; he’s lying on something soft, warm and comfortable, there’s a round lamp above him which makes the ceiling glow in warm yellow. There’s a specific medical scent in the air. He’s in a hospital room of  _Valdebebas_ _._

Iker shivers when he hears those beats again. Not beats—clicks. Heels are clicking on the floor. It’s extremely irritating; his headache is unbearable. Casillas turns on his side carefully and glances at the clock—it’s 11pm. He’s been whacked out almost for the whole day! The goalkeeper remembers why, and something tingles in his stomach. Now the team will think he’s a cookie-pusher on top on everything else. He’d been hit with a ball for a million times before with no harm! It’s not an excuse for fainting in front of everyone as if he’s not a world-class footballer but a whiny girl. Iker sits in the bed slowly, lowers his head and waits for the dark haze to disappear. It seems he’s got a brain concussion.

The door leading to an office opens, and their team doctor, woman around fifty, enters. She notices the patient and smiles.

“Oh, you’re awake! We’ve been so worried.” The woman walks to Iker and tucks him in softly. “You must rest.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Ha, nothing serious. You’re a strong one,” her smile widens, “you’ll spend here a day or two and I’ll dismiss you. No concussion.” Iker exhales in relief. “How’re you feeling? Should I make your visitors happy or you will?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a real line in the hallway. They’ve been sitting here for the whole day. I’m telling them, ‘Go home, you can return tomorrow,’ but they don’t even listen.”

“The line, huh.” The teammates can’t wait for the new opportunity to mock their pussy cap? It’s impossible they’ve come to condole with him, right?

The doctor nods. “They’re so worried, wanted to run into here,” she gives a glass of water to Iker, “Señor Mourinho was yelling at them so loud, if only you could hear. Especially at Señor Ronaldo.” What about him? That’s weird; José screaming at his favourite. “Señor Ramos worries, too.”

Iker jerks his head up, not caring about the pain. “Sergio’s here?”

“Yes. Shall I call them in?” Casillas nods. “Just not for long. You need silence.”

 _Yeah, yeah, silence, rest. I’ve sacked out for thirteen hours anyway,_ Iker thinks. The doctor walks out in the corridor, her heels clicking non-stop. Iker tries to put on his apathetic face so not to show weakness. He is the captain, and captains don’t complain about such trifle.

He hears clatter behind the door, and then Mourinho, Sergio, Fábio, Pepe, Cristiano and Xabi literally break into the room. “How arey ou?” Fábio sits on his bed.

“Perfect,” Iker answers cheerly, not looking at others. “I don’t understand why I’m kept here. I could go home.”

“Home will wait,” the coach mutters. Iker notices relief along with earnest in his voice. “I’ll let you out, and this half-wit,” he nods at Ronaldo, “will start kicking balls at you again. The game is close, one goalkeeper is on holiday and the other in hospital! Splendid!”

That’s whose work it is! Cristiano has made it deliberately. Not so much of a surprise actually; only he can make a ball fly so fast, so precise. Ronaldo has beaten all of his teammates in mockery invention.

“I told you it was an accident,” Pepe says, shifting his glance.

“Shut up. And you,” José turns to Cristiano, “forget about trainings with the constitutes for at least a week!”

Iker is all eyes on Mourinho; he’s never hears his coach to speak this way with fellow Portuguese. Or to deprive first eleven of their best forward!

“Anyway, I have to go.” José shakes Casillas’ hand. “Get well.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll go, too,” Fábio says, “see you tomorrow.” He also shakes his hand, winks and leaves with the coach.

Awkward silence embraces the room. Sergio steps aside and puts his hand on the bed’s footboard, looking at the three other visitors somewhat hawkish. Iker doesn’t even know how to construe it. “If you are here to get on my nerves again, get the hell out now. I’m so done with this crap.”

Alonso steps forward. “Iker, Sergio’s told us everything.”

Casillas thinks he’s been thrown into an ice river. “What?” he whispers in panic, staring at Ramos.

“He said you’ve sorted all out, that it was his fault, too. Right?” Xabi looks at Sergio.

“Right.”

Is it a hallucination? Sorted out? Iker yelled at him, said a bunch of, so to say, unpleasant things; and he declares he was partially guilty?

“Forgive us, please,” Cristiano chips in, “for everything. You didn’t tell anything, so we thought you’d beaten Serg or what.”

Iker feels a mix of relief and anger. Yes, he deserved a punishment, but who gave the team a right to round upon him without knowing what had happened? Moreover, this surreptitious ball hit was so humiliating. Iker isn’t to going to just let these go.

“You thought you need to put on your sad face ‘n puppy eyes, apologize and I’d forget everything?”

“Cap, you’re—”

“Congratulations! You’ll soon have a new captain! And I’m leaving, that’s final. Too old, not in a good form. All papers are screaming about it.”

“You’re in a perfect form!” Pepe interrupts, “And where you will go? What club will pay this much? And how will we ever be able to find another excellent goalkeeper?”

“Here!” Iker, shooting fire, points a finger at him. “All you care about are salary, prestige and where to get a new goalkeeper! Don’t worry; José will solve this little puzzle in a second. And I have enough money to never work until I die. Or I may try hand at basketball,” he hums.

Los Blancos are watching him sorrowfully. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush, Cas?” Xabi asks.

“Not your business,” Iker flings off as if he’s changed places with his colleagues. It’s impossible to believe they’ll treat him like before. “You know what? Go home. You’re probably tired of waiting for this fucking sickness to wake up.”

“Iker, we’re in all innocence—”

“ _Innocence_ _?_ ” Casillas snorts. It’s painful for him to hear this, as if a knife is being turned in his heart. “I’d thought you’re my family, my _familia,_ trusted you like myself. And what did I get inreturn? A betrayal! The family is dead; you’ve rushed at me like a pile of hounds and didn’t even know why! Just for fun, I guess! How can I ever trust you again?” Iker pauses, his head is throbbing with horrible ache. He can’t see anything for a moment. “Get out already.”

“Can I stay, Iker?” Sergio asks humbly. The men are milling about near the door but finally leave the ward. Casillas can’t believe his ears; the defender first fences him off, and now wants a private talk?

“Ok. Sit, then,” Iker nods at the next bed but Sergio sits on his. Only yesterday Ramos was horrified to be five steps near him, and now what?

“Please, liedown. You’re probably feeling horrible.” His look is full of concern.

“Why would you think that?” Iker says carelessly, trying not to grit his teeth in terrible ripple in the head.

“You’re pale.”

“Just a little cold.” Actually he’s sweating after the speech. Ramos takes a blanket from the nearby bed and covers Iker with it so carefully that the goalkeeper can’t hold it back, “Sergio, what’s going on? Why do you lie to them we’ve made it up when you should be cursing me after yesterday? That it’s your fault—bullshit! You must throw a party in honour of my leave, not protecting me.”

“You’ve been suffering because of me. And it is I who convinced you to leave the club.”

“Stop this, I’d write the application anyway. A day later, a day earlier, who cares? My relationships with the others are broken.”

“Once again because of me. You nearly got a concussion, and I was there with Cris and could prevent this. When you fell and I saw your face back on the field,” Sergio runs his fingers through his hair, looking a little mad, “it scared me to death. I was so worried.” His voice is shaking. Iker want to ask something but immediately forgets it. “And you’re not so wrong about my girlish behaviour.”

“Sergio, are you nuts? Are you saying it’s your fault I’ve,” Iker finishes the sentence barely hearable, “raped you?”

Ramos lowers his gaze. “You don’t deserve such treatment. It’s too cruel.”

“You’re right; I deserve worse.”

Suddenly Sergio moves closer and looks Iker in the eyes appealingly. “Please don’t leave.” Casillas wants to object but doesn’t manage to say a word. “I won’t forgive myself if the club is without the world's best goalkeeper.”

“It’s not because of you.”

“Oh really? You told that you were ready to give up Real and go anywhere, remember? I didn’t believe it, I thought you were bluffing. Forget that shit. I forgave you a long time ago.”

“It’s not you and me anymore, Sergio, it’s me and the team,” Iker says softly. “I don’t feel myself a part of it.”

“That’s for now,” Ramos balks, “and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Jesus, I’m definitely hallucinating.” Iker starts massaging his temples.

“We mean too much for each other.” The goalkeeper is quite surprised with this confession. Has he really forgiven him…? “I’m sorry.”

“What for? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. That’s why my decision is final. The worst moment of my life will go away; and you’ll continue to play, to enjoy the life.”

“It won’t be the same without you!” Ramos bursts out, jumping on his feet. “Yes, you made a mistake, but who doesn’t make one? There is a chance to fix everything, and you prefer to run away?”

Iker thinks he’s heard about ‘making a mistake’ already. The brightening comes out of the blue; he’s trying to be strong, to stand pain and humiliation, not to show his true feelings… but that’s not the point. He truly is ready to escape the problem which is looming on the horizon like a storm cloud. How come he didn’t get it earlier!? He wimped out, shit himself and then convinced his reflection that leaving Real for Sergio is some kind of self-sacrifice. “You’ve just proved it; I can’t be the head of the team anymore. I’m a coward, looking for excuses.”

“I didn’t mean any of it!” Sergio yells.

Right then the angry-looking doctor enters. “Señor Ramos, I told you—no noise!” She stands between the men, as if trying to prevent a fight. “Your captain needs to sleep. Fold up.”

Ramos looks at Iker over her shoulder. His eyes suggest he’s going through seven circles of Hell now.

“I can’t change it, Sergio, sorry.”

He turns round and walks into the corridor as if to a scaffold. Iker feels the heartache throbbing in his chest but he knows he’s doing a right thing. ‘That’s best for everyone’ won’t work today. Iker’s self-castigation stops only when he notices the doctor wandering in the ward, adjusting curtains and bed sheets. The clicking of the heels to Iker is like Inquisition’s tortures to heretics. “Can I have something from headache?” he asks rankly.

The woman takes a pack out of her pocket and hands it over to him. She looks quite upset. “You should think it over more, Señor Casillas. What will they do if you leave?”

He freezes, the pill in his mouth. “How do you know?”

“They told me.” God damn it. Iker slams his fist on the bed. Will the coach know the news from operating personnel, not from the goalkeeper himself? If so, José’s wrath will be worse than Vesuvius’ eruption, a typhoon and a stone-shower altogether. “I don’t know what exactly has happened between you and Señor Ramos, but I certainly wouldn’t rush if I were you. Your friend will be lost without you. How he was lashing while you were unconscious!

“Lashing, you say?”

“Indeed,” the woman is beating pillows ferociously, “you've seen a crucifix in another wing? He’s been kneeling for an hour in front of it, then walked out in tears.”

Iker stares into the opposite wall in shock. His imagination is already picturing Sergio, crying on his knees before Christ’s face and over Casillas’ unconscious body.

The doctor leaves, having wished Iker a good night. He’s tumbling in the now-uncomfortable bed. The words he’s heard in the last hour echo in his head non-stop. When Iker finally drifts off into sleep, he sees himself running through the darkness again. And once again fear won’t let go… but he fears for someone else. He needs to save this _someone._

Suddenly a deep chasm reveals itself; Iker hardly manages to pull up. He opens his mouth in a wordless scream—just a few feet to the right Sergio is grasping the edges with all his might. Casillas runs to the rescue but suddenly stops. What if he falls while saving Ramos?

 _Go give him a hand, you dickhead!_ his inner self yells but fear for his own life doesn’t let him to make a single step.

 _Iker_ _!_ Sergio begs. Casillas thrusts his hand out—and immediately withdraws it. Again his fingers brush Sergio’s—and Iker steps back. _Please don’t leave, Iker!_

Ramos’ fingers are slipping; he’s rubbed his nails into blood, desperately trying not to fall. Iker is just standing near, thinking feverishly.

 _IKER_ _!!_ Sergio bawls. The man flinches and wakes up, gasping for air. The sheets are messed up, the blanket is on the floor, and his neck and forehead are sweating. _Stupid fucking dream,_ Casillas tries to calm himself, to calm his fast beating heart. It starts throbbing in his head again. Iker touches his cheek unwittingly and feels tears on it.


	6. The Breach

Casillas manages to fall asleep only towards morning. But he’s never been used to sleeping late so he wakes up at somewhere 9am. The doctor examines Iker thoroughly, makes notes in her notebook, gives him some medicine and only then lets him to have breakfast. While he’s eating, she’s fussing around him with care, smiling and telling different stories… reminding Iker of his mom. She’d always take care of little Iker when he was sick, make hot herbal tea and chicken soup.

“By the way, Señor Casillas, there are some gifts for you.” The doctor brings him a bag; Iker pulls out oranges, apples and a weighty pomegranate. He thinks for a moment they've been poisoned by Ronaldo and Pepe. “Señor Ramos left it while you were sleeping.”

Casillas finishes the meal quickly and turns to the oranges. Taking juicy segments in his mouth and looking at sunny Madrid through the window, he smiles; there was a note in the bag, too.

_We’ll come see you in the interval._

_—Sergio and Fábio._

Iker has nothing to do; the super attentive woman doctor has taken away the captain’s cell, explaining that airwaves are bad for his brain. “I’ve seen this before, you’ll start writing messages, calling, posting photos on your Infogram.”

“It’s _Instagram,_ ” Iker laughs.

It’s impossible to laugh several hours later. The phrase ‘bad for your brain’ includes, along with the cell phone, watching TV, reading and even loud talking. The last one was especially stressed by the doctor, because instead of Sergio and Fábio the whole team and the coach stumble in the ward. Mourinho doesn’t bother Iker with questions, just like yesterday, but talks to the doctor for a long time in her office. Los Blancos, without the coach watching them, are trying to convince Iker to stay in the club. Finally, there’s such horrible rumpus in the room that the doctor huddles them all out with no permission to visit the goalkeeper again. With the exception of Sergio. He comes to Iker in the mornings, in the daytime and after trainings without fail. Every time Ramos knocks, Iker exhales in relief; that dreadful dream continues to pursue him. Their talks always start with the same thorough questioning;

“How are you? Does headache bother you? Do you take your pills? Aren’t you cold? Should I bring you something?”

“What’s with the trainings? Do the others lash out on you and Fábio? You’re tired, aren’t you? Is José grumbling?”

They don’t discuss Iker’s intention to leave Real, but Casillas can literally see the question mark hanging between them. It flashes on Ramos’ face when he remembers the matches, the trips, the weekends and holidays they’ve spent together, when he says _We._ Iker wants to remind Sergio about his decision but, seeing despair and that _plea_ in Ramos’ eyes, cannot say a word. The matter isn’t put to bed, and it won’t be unless a direct _No_ comes after _Will you stay?_ Casillas can’t pluck up courage to pronounce this _No;_ he doesn’t want to hurt Sergio even more.

As the doctor has promised, Iker is dismissed in two days. He walks out of the building in the evening, strictly prohibited to drive. Sergio volunteers to give him a lift.

They exchange one or two simple phrases, and spend the rest of the ride in full silence. The captain feels horrible; tomorrow he has to give Mourinho the application. Vexation takes over him. The coach has been visiting him almost as often as Sergio in these two days, worried. Casillas couldn’t even start talking about his leave when José looked at him somehow protective, hopefully. The coach believed that the cap will leave bed soon… and now Iker is going to tell him he’s leaving the team instead? It seems quite selfish, but what can a man do?

Finally the car stops on Iker’s driveway. Sergio shuts off the engine and goes right ahead, “What about you leaving?”

Iker takes a deep breath before answering. “I _am_ leaving. Going to Mou tomorrow after the training.”

He can see Ramos’ hands squeeze the wheel in a street-lamp’s light. “Why?”

“I’ve already told you, Sergio—”

“Then tell again. I want to hear.” He sounds somewhat assertive and hurt.

“Ok. I’m leaving because of ruined relationship with my teammates. They—”

“Who are you trying to lie to? That’s because of me, it’s clear as fuck. Listen,” he turns to Iker, “I dared you on purpose, forget it! I take my words back. I want you to stay.”

“I can’t.” Unable to look into those dark eyes anymore, Casillas jumps out of the car. Stepping in his porch, he hears the engine’s hum fading away. Sergio’s almost done this. Just one more minute—and he would stay.

 

He tries to cheer himself up, getting ready for the training in the next morning. It’s not his last one of course, the contract won’t be determined so soon. He’ll be tortured for a week more at least, maybe he’ll have to play against Barcelona. And what if not? Iker imagines the fans’ surprised and upset faces; they’ll be looking for him among other white figures, they’ll be looking for him near the goal. He literally sees distressed Xabi, lost Sergio, walking on the grass with his head low… Never mind, they’ll get used to it. They’ll be seeing each other on trainings, on national matches. He and Sergio can be friends aside from a football field. Iker will have lots of spare time; he’ll be able to find a girlfriend finally, fall in love, think about family…

Casillas won’t let himself look at the upside. If he leaves Real, he leaves his god damn life in it. The captain was waking up and falling asleep with a thought that he is an inherent part of modern football, the best goalkeeper, a hope for millions of people. This club has given him unforgettable feelings; sweetness of the first win and bitterness of the first loss. Love for Real flows through his veins and to part ways with it is to sell his soul.

But why then does Iker so easily disown what he’s given his heart to, why is he convincing Sergio and the team different; why does he take the application with him?

~o~o~o~

Hearing the teammates’ cheerful greetings is at least weird. Each of them tries to atone for their guilt in different ways; one makes way for him, another smiles, moving over on the bench. Only Sergio is pursing his lips, looking askance at him.

Exactly at the moment Iker feels thirst, Ronaldo walks to him and asks, “Iker, shall I bring you water?”

Casillas ignores the question and goes for water himself. Coentrão shows up. “Why is Serg all downcast again?”

“Tried to convince me to stay yesterday,” Iker answers and adds, “you don’t start it, okay? I’m sick of this already.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Fábio shrugs and walks away to train. The goalkeeper is suddenly mad at himself; yes, the Portuguese has helped him a lot but it doesn’t mean he’ll be guiding Iker forever.

Los Blancos start dual dribbling. Mourinho has noticed some conflict a long time ago but he doesn’t show a sign. Instead, he’s fighting it in his own way, making the rival sides train in one team. Usually this method works quite well; there’s one word in the players’ minds— _win. Always win, no matter what._ All little arguments are forgotten, the insults are forgiven. Everyone _wins._

Of course, there is always an exception in any rule. José’s tactics crumble when he decides to put Ramos with Arbeloa. They start disputing, and in a single minute Álvaro punches Sergio in the shoulder.

Iker’s blood boils immediately when he sees it. He rushes to help his friend (although Sergio can pretty much stand for himself) and pushes Álvaro back.

“Leave your freaking fights off the field. Back to training, all!” he orders as _almost-not-the-captain_ and returns to the goal, glancing at Sergio. He turns to his partner defiantly.

When time for penalties comes, Iker almost explodes in his wrath; Los Blancos are playing along. Looking at the corner which they’re going to kick in attentively, for half a minute, and sending the ball right into his hands. Casillas wants to flare up, to say that this fucking indulgence is for some fifteen year old… and remembers there’s no need for showing off because he is _leaving._

Later that day grief takes over Iker as if he’s seeing his closest relative off for a long, long time. He looks around, and images of the past appear in his mind. This is his and Sergio’s favourite bench where they used to play fools and try to push each other on the ground. This is where the team loves resting. Round this corner he and Ramos were hiding, wanting to trick Mesut, but got busted absurdly because of loud chuckling. Here Mourinho stands, covering his eyes and watching the game. This is where Casillas fell three days ago…

José always stays for half an hour or even two longer than the team so Iker is the last to shower. He packs his stuff as slow as possible, feeling gazes on his back but not paying attention to them. He’s trying to find Sergio to speak with him one more time; he doesn’t even know what he would say, it’s that need to see Ramos right now. Strange, unexplainable attraction.

The men are leaving the stadium gradually; Cristiano and Fábio are the last ones, whispering something to each other. Iker thinks Sergio was probably the first to leave so the talk won’t happen. He pulls the application out, looks through it as if he hasn’t done it earlier and starts walking to the coach’s office with a sigh.

His steps are echoing in empty hallways. He imagines he’s a student who’s been called by the principal because of the window he’s broken. His hands are shaking, his heart is thumping fast. There are few turns left when the voice behind his back asks, “So it’s final?”

Iker turns round. Sergio is leaning against a wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Who wants another cliffhanger?"  
> "Oh yes, master, please, sir, I need it so bad, please end the chapter without really ending the chapter."


	7. Do You See Now?

“I thought you’ve already left.” Casillas is a bit frightened, as if he’s a busted thief.

“And I was hoping you’ll make the right decision. I was wrong, of course. You want to run away quietly, eh?” Sergio is slowly walking towards him.

“Jesus Christ, Ramos, will you leave me alone?”

“Not until you say you’re staying.”

Casillas is growing angry. “We’ve discussed it for a million times!” He goes silent roundly, hearing a noise somewhere deep in the building. They step in the relaxation room where Sergio came out from a minute ago. “It is _final._ ” Iker folds his arms firmly.

“You almost gave it up, when we were talking in my car.” Casillas looks at the man, his breath bated. Ramos understood it yesterday. “I know you too well. A few more arguments and I would’ve—”

“That is enough.” The goalkeeper’s patience has run out. He’s tired and wants to go home, to end this madness that has been haunting him for so long.

“No _enoughs!_ ” Sergio yells suddenly which makes Iker shiver. “What, you’re just gonna abandon football?”

“Aren’t national games football?”

“How will you play? Lying on your couch? No one will allow you to represent Spain if you lose your last skills.”

“I won’t. I’ll be training.”

Sergio flings his arms up, “I’m fucking surprised you are the chosen captain! Even some dumb blonde bitch is smarter than you.”

“When you’re the cap, you’ll show your perfect mind to everyone, no doubt!” Iker is choking in his dudgeon.

“Just sit down at once and _think,_ or did that ball beat your last brains out!?”

“Say thanks to your fucking bodyguard!” The goalkeeper may be taunting but he’s insulted by those words. “How did you communicate with me all this time if I’m so stupid?”

“You weren’t before.”

“Perfect! I’ll leave so you won’t be burdened with my stupidity! You wished to hear the real reason—well here it is!”

“Pick one already.”

“Can do. And what I’m gonna tell Mourinho is that my IQ is too low for me to stand near Sergio Ramos García, the most intelligent football player on the planet!”

“I think he won’t argue,” the defender nods.

Iker feels the line is close, knows they should stop or they’ll cross it. He can barely think about when suddenly realizes another fact; while Sergio and he were scolding, they got incredibly close to each other. He quickly glances at Ramos’ reddened lips, hearing a weak echo of the locked desire. Like that night at his place.

Ramos doesn’t fail to notice the gaze. He shuts up and just blinks.

The goalkeeper remembers perfectly what reaction he caused when he was standing close to Sergio. He’s ready for the defender to back up in disgust, to call him a freak, or to beat the crap out of him. Instead, Ramos steps forward which makes the tension unbearable.

“Sergio… you’re… you’re not—” Casillas, paralyzed, watches Ramos’ face lean to his. Caressing Iker’s cheek, Sergio closes his eyes and kisses him softly. Dazed, Iker isn’t moving while his friend is _studying_ his lips. As though woken up, Casillas kisses back as careful as he can so not to frighten. Ramos braces his waist with one hand and presses into Iker as hard as possible.

“Don’t leave, please, I’m begging you.” He’s breathing in Casillas’ lips erratically and puts them in his sweet, sweet capture once again. Iker runs his fingers through fair hair, not ever wishing to let him go. Sergio, feeling this wish, is kissing more steadily, drowning in true, joyful oblivion. When he opens his mouth a little, and licks the corner of Iker’s lips, heat starts going up the goalkeeper’s spine. He wants to push Sergio at a wall right now, but a single phrase he suddenly remembers stops him.

 _If Sergio doesn’t ask, I won’t even come close._ Iker breaks the kiss and, breathing hard, looks at Ramos.

“What?” the defender whispers.

“Isn’t it… disgusting for you?”

Sergio moistens his lips and presses them into Iker’s one more time. “Mm, let me think. No. It’s very good, actually.”

“But you… you said that…” Casillas has suddenly forgotten how to form sentences.

Instead of answering, Ramos pulls him close and whispers hot in the very ear, “Maybe you won’t go to Mourinho now?”

Iker murmurs something in agreement and twines his arms around the defender’s neck. That’s how it is—they’re standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed, and feeling like they’ve survived an earthquake.

Iker follows Sergio to the parking lot and gets in his car. He’s shocked by what happened mere minutes ago—or hours; he can’t distinguish them anymore—and, to be honest, he doesn’t give a single fuck about anything except the man on the left. Iker doesn’t ask where they are going, and Ramos won’t name the direction, too. But the cap’s intuition tells him it’s going to be his own house.

It was right; Sergio stops before the gates and waits for Iker to open them, then parks and shuts down the engine. They’re sitting silently, hoping that the other will speak.

“May I come in?” Ramos breaks the silence.

“Sure, _if you want,_ ” the goalkeeper emphasizes these words, pointing out that no one is dragging Sergio by force.

“I do.” He steps on the ground and opens Iker’s door for him. They enter the house; take off their jackets and shoes, keeping the distance so not to elbow—and not to touch each other in any way. Not looking back, the captain walks into the kitchen, pours some water in a glass and drinks it at one draught. Just when the glass clinks on the table, he hears Sergio come in and stop near him. It starts buzzing in his ears. Casillas closes his eyes for a second and, finally, turns round.

Energy-saving lamps aren’t giving much light yet, so there’s dusk in the kitchen; and to guess Sergio’s thoughts from his expression is completely impossible. Iker knows perfectly why the defender is here, but has no idea how to act. Several weeks ago Ramos shrank from him as though from a madman, suppressing every attempt to talk. Also, the goalkeeper doubts he’ll be able to maintain self-control and not to jump at Sergio again. Not to lose his head from desire, as it could happen on _Valdebebas._

Ramos is walking towards Iker slowly. Now, when his eyes are so close, Iker sees the way the defender is looking at him. Trustfully. He trusts Iker, just like back then, when they simply were best friends. A fucking eternity ago.

Nevertheless, Iker is bothered by his conscience. “Remember I told you I wouldn’t touch you unless you ask?”

“I don’t understand; you don’t want?—”

Casillas raises his arm, his fingers brushing Sergio’s cheek, lovingly, tenderly, softly. “I do, I want, really. But I’m afraid for you and for myself. If you are—absolutely—sure, you just need to ask.”

The brown eyes never leave his. “I’m sure. And I’m asking you for it.”

“You won’t regret later?”

“No.” Sergio presses his lips into Iker’s—roughly, impatiently.

Everything is completely different today. Iker yields, lets Ramos take matters into his hands, calling to his own composure at the same time. It’s quite hard to restrain the body when Sergio makes such _things_ with his lips and tongue. Iker has lied; he lied when he told Fábio he didn’t want Ramos anymore. This almost-forgotten, forcedly-hidden sensation is back with grown power; it is now crumbling everything on its path while the two kissing men are trying to find the bedroom in darkness.

Having undressed and ripped Iker’s clothes away, Sergio pushes him on the bed and lies atop, his hands caressing the hot body frantically. It’s different to him, too; he isn’t scared of Casillas’ moans and wavy breath—they, vice versa, are making his blood boil and run crazily through his veins. Ramos covers the goalkeeper’s chest with kisses, bites the skin, tasting it, and it’s harder and harder for Iker to retain his mind. He foresees and meets every Sergio’s move, pulls him closer by the shoulders, tortures his lips zestfully while Ramos is enjoying his body. Sergio is teasing him, making go almost insane, and Iker loses his patience. “Sergio, _pleasepleaseplease_ enough I can’t—” Ramos presses into him, pure passion, leans and bites at his earlobe slightly. Iker twines in the strong arms, uttering sweet, long groans, and winds his legs round Ramos’ waist in an attempt to be even closer to the lover, to feel his warmth. “I— _beg_ —don’t torture me,” he stifles, his head twirling on the pillow. Sergio listens to him at last, grabs the first tube he sees from the bed-side table, smears his fingers and starts preparing the goalkeeper for what is to come.

Iker feels Ramos’ hard cock touch his entrance—and panic rises inside him. It must hurt very, _very_ bad, and he doesn’t want to experience such nightmare. His face is probably showing all of it because Sergio runs fingers through Casillas’ hair soothingly, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ll be as gentle as I can.” Iker then clenches his teeth, promising himself he won’t make a sound. Sergio didn’t have a choice back then; and Iker will be silent, he’ll stand anything. Even if Ramos pulls out a flogger and handcuffs.

The defender doesn’t. Instead, he’s pushing inside the captain slowly, stopping from time to time so not to hurt and to recover his breath. Iker is trying to keep a blank expression with all his will. When the first thrust comes, he thinks he’s in Hell, but makes himself mutter, “More, Sergio, more—”

Ramos is moving his hips in the same soft way, hoping it isn’t much painful to the cap. And it truly isn’t; Iker suddenly realizes the pain is gone—the still-weak waves of pleasure are being born somewhere deep. With each moment, second, minute they become stronger. Sergio, his mind in a haze, forgets about caution and starts pounding hard inside Casillas who really doesn’t care. Feeling the orgasm approaching, with an incredibly loud moan, Sergio kisses Iker, lips burning—

While Sergio is panting, nuzzling against Iker’s shoulder, the goalkeeper smiles happily. Ramos lies next to him and looks at the captain with no words. Horrible weariness strikes Casillas, and he closes his eyes. He’s almost fallen asleep when he hears Sergio’s voice, “Do you see now you won’t leave?”

Iker isn’t able even to get mad. “So this all was for me to stay?” he asks, eyes staying closed.

“Idiot,” Sergio plants a brief kiss on his cheek, “so you’d know how important you are to me. You won’t leave, right?”

Iker rolls on the other side, a grin on his face. “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

“Hey! No _tomorrows!_ Tell me now; are you staying?”

“Piss off, I wanna sleep,” Casillas mumbles in the pillow.

“Iker?”

“Mmph.”

“C’mon, Iker!”

The goalkeeper doesn’t answer, and in half a minute Sergio hears him wheezing calmly. _Whatever, he won’t get away until morning,_ Ramos thinks, cuddling Casillas’ warm body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it I hear? "You're a fucking moron, HE has raped him, and now he's in love with HIM or what?"  
> Well guys, I'm not pretending to be a super pro in human characters so, um, don't blame. Let's think it'd happen this way. And satisfy our shipper hearts. Yeah.  
> One more chapter, yay! With some plot twist in it. Kind of. But I think you'll love it.


	8. Sese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale.

Having woken up, Iker doesn’t know what’s wrong. He opens his eyes and smiles joyfully, remembering the last night in detail. Slugs in the bed, wrapping himself up in the blanket; nice warmth flows through his body. That’s when he notices he can’t hear Sergio’s breathing. He hears nothing—not a single sound in the house.

Casillas rolls on the other side. Something shivers inside him when he touches the pillow Sergio slept on. It’s cold and wrinkled.

Iker sits in the bed and tugs at his hair. What has he done wrong? Hasn’t he let Sergio do anything he wished? Hasn’t Sergio told Casillas that he’s important, that he wants them to be together?

Clueless, Iker finally concludes; they have promised nothing to each other. Ramos is still willing to choose—to stay with the captain or to pretend that what’s happened was some kind of insanity.

Iker slowly goes to the bathroom, dresses up and walks downstairs, a cell phone in his hands, but he doesn’t have the heart to dial the most important number. He’s scared to hear, _It was a mistake. We didn’t know what we were doing._ This would kill him.

Casillas looks at his reflection with a sigh when something crashes behind the wall. He flinches but walks fast to the source of the sound. Iker sees the door leading to the kitchen—it’s closed. He really doesn’t remember closing it yesterday. The handle is turned—and the goalkeeper freezes in the doorway. Sergio stands at the cooker, in jeans only. He turns round and gives Iker a wide smile. “Good morning.”

Casillas is staring at him, somehow dumbfounded and joyful. “I thought you’ve already left.”

“You just can’t wait, can you?” Ramos asks humorously.

“What do you mean?”

“You said the same thing yesterday, on the stadium.” He checks on the frying pan; Iker can smell eggs and bacon. “You won’t get rid of me so easily.”

The goalkeeper hugs Sergio’s waist and kisses him between his shoulder blades, the stubble brushing Ramos’ back. “I just woke up and you were gone. I thought you’ll go away for good.”

The defender turns the cooker off and looks Iker in the eye. “I wanted to surprise you with a nice breakfast, and scared you. Sorry.” They kiss; it drives Iker crazy how Ramos  _caresses_ his lips. “Ok, let’s eat.”

Iker sits down to table, and they enjoy fried eggs and crispy bacon. “Thank you. I’d eat more but I want to be able to run while training,” Casillas laughs, taking the dishes away. He notices the sheet of paper on the bar counter. Letters written with his hand are telling that Iker Casillas Fernández has decided to leave Real Madrid CF.

“You never answered me,” Ramos reminds quietly.

Seeing his eyes, trustful and shining with the most sincere hope in the world, Iker just _can’t_ say No. It would be very selfish. They need each other too much now. And the team… oh, fuck it, they’ll get along somehow. The relationship will unlikely be the same as before but it’ll be fine. Although there is one thing Iker has to ask about. “Why did you kiss me yesterday? I thought you won’t even come close after everything.”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Sergio shrugs, “When we weren’t talking I felt I missed you. And when that dumbass of Ronaldo hit you in the head, I was afraid I’d lose you. You decision to leave hurt me, of course; I thought you were betraying our friendship. Even though _friendship_ isn’t the right word for what was between us those days.” He hums. “I understood you wouldn’t back down so I waited for you near Mourinho’s office. Wanted to say goodbye or try to talk you out of that again—I didn’t know exactly. And this is how it came out. This morning I woke up and told myself I’m a fucking psycho. Seduced my best friend.”

“We’re both fucking psychos,” the captain laughs.

“I could have made my mind to liking you earlier, but my stubbornness was stronger. I didn’t want to confess to myself I like men.”

Iker won’t stop surprising how lost they are. Lost in each other, in sensations, in the world that tightens around them. Time to correct mistakes.

“So what about it?” Ramos nods at the paper in his hands.

“Something like this.” The captain rips it in four and tosses in the bin. “You’ll fuck everything up without me so I’m staying and watching over you,” he says, tumbling Ramos’ hair.

The defender draws forward and, with all gratitude possible, presses his lips into Casillas’. “Iker, I love you.”

“—I love you too, Ses—Sergio, I mean.”

“Why won’t you call me Sese?” Ramos frowns.

“You forbade me.” Iker shivers, remembering that horrible morning fight in the locker room.

“It was an eternity ago. Are we really going to remind each other about that shit? Forget it; things are different now.” His hand strokes Iker’s nape, and he gives him a bright, dazzling smile; a smile that Iker adores, a smile that Iker has missed.

Things truly should be different now. A run of bad luck has ended; tiffs and misunderstandings are gone.

 _His_ Sese is back.

~o~o~o~

“Let’s not tell anyone about us yet,” Iker asks, parking near the stadium.

“Alright,” Ramos agrees. “Jaws will drop when we walk in. I already see Mes’ eyes in front of me. They’re large anyway, and now they’ll be like dinner plates or something,” he laughs loudly and adds, getting out of the car, “when we were in a hatred mode, he and Sami wanted to come to your house to _talk_. I almost supported it.”

Iker isn’t used to hearing such things in such a careless tone. “Sergio, forgive me, please.”

“Here we are again,” he rolls his eyes with a moan, “how many times have you said it? One hundred? One thousand?”

“I’ll repeat for the one hundred and first, and for the one thousand and first.”

“Let’s strike a deal.” Sergio stops and grabs his sleeve. “We’ll never remember what happened from now on. Both of us have done plenty of crap, and we apologized enough. You don’t like it when I say sorry, do you?”

“You have nothing—”

“So deal it is,” Ramos smacks him on the shoulder.

Today the team is training in the gym and in the swimming pool. Sergio and Iker walk through a large room with exercisers of all kinds and shapes. Benzema and Khedira are standing near the treadmill; Mourinho is trying to explain something to them. They notice the Spaniards—who are walking side by side, chatting and smiling—and start staring. A good-natured smile touches the coach’s lips.

The locker room is crowded as usual, with rumpus and fuss. The newly arrived couple is exactly in the epicentre of this confusion.

“Hi everybody,” Ramos says cheerfully, shining with positive.

The footballers shut up as one, gazing at the hand which rests on Iker’s shoulder. “And you’re—” Pepe points a finger at them, “good now?”

“Absolutely. And if anyone suddenly wants to _talk_ to Iker, he will have to deal with me,” Sergio says, surprisingly coolly. Casillas can’t stand so much attention and retreats to the farthest corner of the room.

“Hey Cas,” Xabi clears his throat.

“What do you want?” Iker’s rudeness is affected; he’s in a too good mood today to be angry with the team.

“We’re sorry.” They’re looking at him with the same guilty, apologetic expression. Only Sergio wears a ear-to-ear grin.

“You’re a great keeper, a perfect cap and a nice man,” Álvaro starts babbling.

“We won’t get on your nerves anymore, really.” It’s at least unusual to hear something like this from Ronaldo.

“Yeah, we’ll do anything you say—”

“We’ll train hard to not let you down—”

“Even at weekends if you want—”

“Just don’t leave, ok?—”

“It’s better to stay, Iker—”

“You’re all freaking toadies,” the goalkeeper interrupts a wave of spluttering. Los Blancos seem like a bunch of guilty schoolboys. “You didn’t even know what was up, and you mocked me like the worst of outsiders. I thought you didn’t care about me, but now I see you can’t really decide what you want. If it doesn’t stop, you’ll rip out each other’s throats, I swear. Someone has to prevent this,” Iker inhales deeply, “so I’m staying.”

The players are processing their cap’s words for a second or two—and rush to him, yelling, slapping his back and shoulders, grabbing his neck, hugging tightly, screaming, “Hooray, hooray!”

“Should’ve stayed here,” Mesut mutters, entering the room, “I always miss everything interesting.”

~o~o~o~

“Oh hell, I’m so tired,” Sergio sighs and falls down on the couch, rubbing his muscles. “Mou is out of his mind today; I nearly fainted on that treadmill.”

“Ha, artist,” Iker laughs, “what was that comedy for?”

“I was hoping he’ll have mercy; a special occasion, you know. I was wrong.”

“Then we can sit here and rest,” Casillas whispers in his very ear.

Sergio isn’t pleased with this perspective. Well, he’d like to sit with Iker, of course. For a start. The last night was amazing, and he craves another one. All day he’s been eyeing the tempting body, imagining himself incurving under it on a bed, savouring the touches. “Let’s not just sit,” Ramos suggests, touches Iker’s chin; his finger making its way down the neck, unbuttoning the shirt and caressing soft skin.

“Aren’t you artful,” Casillas murmurs and kisses Sergio passionately, biting at the lips.

“Come on.” Sergio leads him to the bedroom, throws away his T-shirt, and pulls the goalkeeper to the bed. He wants to surrender to Iker immediately, to beg him to take him right away.

Casillas suddenly withdraws. “Sergio, I can’t—”

“Iker, stop arguing. We both need it. We decided not to remember about anything. You promised me, didn’t you?” Ramos nuzzles in his neck, whispering hotly, “Come on… Want you so much—”

The goalkeeper can’t bear with such enticement. They undress each other as quickly as they can, their burning skin touching thus making everything else inside them _burn._ Iker covers the defender’s neck with kisses, stroking his cock. Sergio answers with moaning, sweet and long, with screwing up his eyes in pleasure and opening his mouth a bit; his forehead glistens with sweat. He trusts Iker once again; he’s ready to give in to him. Casillas stretches him with wet fingers; he thinks he’ll come just at the sight of Sergio twirling in his arms, spreading his legs. Feeling the hot tightness, the impossible heat, the heady kisses, Iker can’t hold back anymore. He pushes into Iker fast and deep at once, hurting and sending to heaven at the same time. Ramos, moaning non-stop, is moving up and down, faster and faster and _faster._ Convulsing in egregious pleasure, Iker groans harshly and comes inside his Sese, pressing him into the bed. Shaky, unsteady breathing is echoing in the room.

“Wasn’t someone tired after the training?” Casillas quirks, having recovered his breath.

“No, dear, you are hearing things. I’ll never be tired for this.”

“Then supper is on you.” Iker pats him on the nape.

“Nah, let’s order from a restaurant,” Sergio protests.

“I like it when you cook, and I would love to taste something else from chief cook Ramos.”

“Oh, alright,” Sergio rises from the bed unwillingly. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me,” Casillas winks and leaves for the shower.

“Well wait till you want to sleep; I’ll surprise the fuck out of you,” the defender mutters, throwing a vengeful look at the bathroom door.

~o~o~o~

“You guys—” Fábio chuckles, taking a sip from his cup of coffee, “you can make everything up without me.”

“No, without you nothing would’ve happened,” Iker smiles gratefully. “Thank you again, we owe you one.”

“Never mind,” the Portuguese waves off. “And when did you two hook up?”

“You may not believe, but it’s a mystery for us, too,” Sergio whispers, leaning over the table.

“I see, ha. Thanks for brandy by the way, I like this one,” Coentrão gazes at the bottle and a box of chocolates, “but you really shouldn’t have—”

“Yes, we should have. You know this.”

They’re drinking coffee and talking about the Spanish couple reunion when someone rings the doorbell. Fábio seems frightened for some reason. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” And he walks to the hallway fast.

Casillas doesn’t care, but Sergio’s eyes flame up. He wouldn’t be Sergio if he didn’t sneak after the teammate, not caring about Iker’s objections. Hiding behind the wall, he listens.

“—and what will you tell them? Let’s just wait until they leave, I’ll call you and you’ll come by.”

“Jesus, why so complicated?” It’s Ronaldo. “I’ll tell I’m just a guest. Can’t I visit my friend?”

“You can, but—”

“Then what are you afraid of, sweetheart? Or you enjoy making me jealous?”

“Idiot.”

“ _Sweetheart!?_ ” Sergio exclaims in shock, forgets about conspiracy and stumbles into the antechamber. There’s silence for a moment, and then…

“ _OH FUCK YOU RAMOS WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU TO EAVESDROP!?_ ” Fábio yells, reddened. “I told you to wait!” Cristiano looks scared as never, he is slowly backing away to the door. Staring at one teammate and then another, Sergio starts laughing hysterically, nearly falling on the floor. “What’s so funny, asshole!?”

“It’s—it’s like a gay harem or some shit,” Ramos spits out and roars again.

Iker shows up. “What’s up? Were you yelling, Fábio?”

“Here’s some advice for you; keep an eye out on your fool so he will mind his own business!”

“I don’t get it.” Only now Casillas notices Ronaldo who’s in a preinfarction angina apparently. “Hi Cris.”

“Cas,” Sergio grabs his elbow, “they’re—”

“Shut your mouth!” both of the Portuguese scream.

“They’re what?”

“You remember that song… eh… _It’s okay to be gay, let’s rejoice with the—boys in the—in the gay way._ ” The Spaniard is definitely in hysterics.

“And are you better? You’ve been crying over your shit for a month!”

“Now I don’t get it,” Ronaldo says.

“They’re a couple, too.”

“Hey! It was a secret!” Iker bristles.

When laughter finally leaves Sergio, he manages to calm everyone and gather them in the kitchen. “Our thing is, well, bugger, so no one should find out about it. Top secret, national security information, blah-blah.”

“Fine.” They now smile to each other. Fábio decides to broach the brandy. “Let’s drink to us,” he gives a toast.

“No, no, no. Let’s drink to bromance. Strong and unbreakable,” Ramos interrupts.

The four of them exchange looks and rock with laughter.

**The End.**

 

Oh, I'm kind of late but: Real 2-0 Sevilla. Hooray! Super champions! Hala Madrid! Cristiano rocks, as usual. And Iker has tweeted a certain photo which made me die. God damn it they're perfect #shipperfuckingfeels

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. Thanks to everyone who read it, who has been with me in the process, commenting, inspiring, making me smile when everything around me seemed horrible. And I repeat; there's really no need to take this story seriously. I only wanted to share something, to satisfy someone's hearts-and mine, too.
> 
> See you in the comments of something else I'll write, hopefully!


End file.
